Howling Echoes: Where Loyalty Lies
by Author-Of-Sin
Summary: Part Three of the Howling Echoes series! The Commonwealth has secrets. Most people tend to leave them alone, let them sort themselves out. Some tell stories about boogeymen, both real and imagined. Others have sense enough keep to themselves. Our dear General, though? Well, from what he's seen so far... She's gonna air out everyone's dirty laundry.
1. Chapter 1

The commonwealth has... secrets.

Most people are content to let sleeping dogs lie; but the dear, sweet, overly altruistic General?

Not a chance.

She's got this notebook, see, and he's been watching her as she's been putting the pieces together, slowly but surely.

Every time she sees a rail sign, she makes a note.

Every letter she finds on the Freedom Trail during her travels, she writes down.

Every odd little unexplained thing that happens, she scrutinizes and again, jots it down; even if it has nothing to do with the Railroad at all.

She heads down into a place only psycho'd-out raiders will touch, Dunwich Borers; when she surfaces—significantly soggier—it's with an eldritch blade strapped to her hip that looks like she'd ripped it from a demon of hell itself.

The ashen pallor and somewhat shocked and horrified expressions of her and her companions almost seem to confirm that idea, to his distinct unease.

It's after this she makes an... interestingly new choice.

She actually stops wearing vault suits.

Instead, she trades up for a plain bustier top, jeans, her—still freakishly clean, somehow—boots, a beret and her assortment of leather harnesses and bandoliers for weapons and ammo; topping it all off with her imminently practical backpack.

Just since that change, he'd come close to being caught once or twice—she's an extremely perceptive one, he'll definitely grant her that.

Hell, he'd had to stop using a few identities in Goodneighbor completely, before he was even tracking her because he'd been absolutely certain she was about to make him as one of his other covers.

She's a tricky one, for damn sure.

But, when Des says to _personally_ follow and report on someone who's been making this many waves?

Well, it's worth the risk.

Plus, he's been curious as hell for some time, so this close-range surveillance, despite being exactly the opposite of his usual preference... well, at least it hasn't been _boring_.

* * *

"We're being followed."

I glance over at Charon, nodding once and adjusting my grip on _Widowmaker_ as I keep right on marchin'. "Yep-uh, I know. He's been tailin' us for at least a week, now. Probably longer. Got some idea who he is, but I'm tryin' to make sure before I bust the cover he thinks he has."

"Care to clue the rest of the class in?" John snarks from my left, elbowing my side softly.

I chew on the inside of my cheek for a second or two, considering it, but end up shaking my head. "Not yet. If I'm right, he isn't a threat. If I'm not, he's one man; we can capture and question him easy enough."

"'Capture and question'? Why not just kill 'im?" Mac pipes up from behind, forcing me to turn around and risk walking backward on rough terrain to give him the look his question deserves.

"C'mon, little bro, think about it. He's been tailing us a week, two weeks? Why? Who sent him? If he's not just some really weird nutjob, then someone who's keen on watching us sent him to keep tabs and report back. I'd like to find out who's so interested." I turn back around and end up having to apologize and thank Charon, when he has to catch my arm to steady me after I stumble over a large chunk of loose asphalt.

I hear a sigh from behind me, but resolutely keep my eyes on the path before me. No more stumbling awkwardness for this lady-person.

"Alright fine, how you wanna nab 'im then?"

I shrug, eyes lifting to scan our surroundings as I answer, "Dunno yet. Won't know until it's closer to time. Gotta figure him out a little better first."

"Ain't that a little risky?" John hedges from my left, "What if he's from the Institute or somethin'?"

I shake my head. "He's not. I'll wager he's the exact opposite, actually."

"The Railroad you've been seeking out."

I nod toward my right. "You got it in one, Charon. Way to get it outta me anyway, guys." I scoff lightly, shaking my head in amusement. "Better hope the man doesn't have synth hearing or some shit—would be just my luck they send a synth to watch us. It'd be smart if they did, really."

Charon rolls his shoulders, wincing uneasily. "The synths who appear human do not have the superior hearing your Detective does."

I blink and peer over at him searchingly, eyebrow lifted in query. "S'that so?"

He slowly sighs and grumbles for a bit before he gives up the info. "There was a synth living in Rivet City that Lynn and I encountered on our first visit... once she found out, some time later, that he was a... well, what was called an 'android', at the time, she went back to quietly speak to him on the subject. He was... very resistant, at first. I persuaded him to hear her out. At one point during the encounter, Lynn pulled me aside to speak privately. The synth gave no reaction to any words spoken between us, despite nearly all of them regarding fabricated versions of his potential fate, at our hands."

Both my eyebrows shoot up now. "You were baiting him? Why? You suspected he had super hearing for some reason?"

Charon shakes his head. "Lynn had assumed since robots also have such upgrades, that anything robot-like would have something similar. She was slightly disappointed to discover the truth: the android was human in nearly every way, excepting some small bits of circuitry embedded in his brain."

I frown skeptically at that. "He admitted to it? Just like that?"

There's a small moment of hesitation, before Charon answers, "...I was _quite_ persuasive."

Oh. _Oh._ Right. "Ah. Well, it's... good information to have, at least."

John seems to be mulling something over when I happen to look back at him during my scanning. When he notices me noticing him, he shrugs one shoulder. "Not sure I like the idea of the Railroad tagging along any more than the Institute. Goodneighbor's got loose ties to 'em, but aside from one or two of our citizens, nobody's really supposed to know about that. Don't entirely trust 'em personally, but they've never done me or mine wrong, so I let 'em do their thing around town. Figured as long as it didn't interfere with Goodneighbor business, it was cool. Them sendin' someone to personally watch our pack? That seems all kindsa fishy t'me."

I dip my head to concede his point. "You're not wrong. And I'm not sayin' it isn't weird that they're doin' it all of a sudden, but I think if they meant us harm, they'd have made their move by now."

He wobbles his head in a faint imitation of a shrug. "True. Maybe he's waitin' on backup?"

I snort, side-eying him incredulously. "For as long as he's been tracking us? Nah, he's on his own. Feels like information-gathering, not ambush prep."

"Agreed," I hear from my right now, "but that doesn't mean the information they gather won't lead to an ambush."

I heave a deep, tired sigh, nodding my assent. "Fair enough. We'll keep our wits about us, but our routines stay the same—I don't want to tip them off. Let's get this guy nice and comfy; make it a whole hell of a lot easier to get the jump on him."

"I like it." I can easily hear John's approval in his voice. "But I wouldn't say t'let him get _too_ comfortable. Just wouldn't be proper, after all."

"Mm." I ponder his response for a moment, speaking up when a possible solution appears over the crest of the small hill we're climbing. "Actually... Charon, Mac: you two remember the backdoor trick we pulled at the candy shop?"

Mac's dark chuckle trips up my spine pleasantly, bringing a smile to my own lips. "I like the way you think, sis. You got a place lined up already, or we scopin' out new territory?"

I gesture to the boarded up but still accessible bookstore, ahead up on the left. "Seems a likely candidate. Know for a fact there's a back door in the alley behind it. It's not ideal for it, but it'll do in a pinch. Don't know of any others in the area."

"Sunshine, you know I hate repeatin' myself... unless I forget m'doin' it, but that's a whole other thing. Anyway, clue me in, what's the plan?"

I send a smirk over to him, because god damn it all, he's a complete _mess_ , but I love this ghoul. "I'll fill ya in when we get in there, love, I promise. Normal hearing or not, I don't wanna risk this going wrong."

* * *

He's watching the back entrance from a safe spot, well away from any light sources, obscured from view by the local flora, when he gets that unsettling sensation that tells him he should probably slap a stealth boy on his wrist and get the hell outta Dodge, immediately.

Usually, he listens to that instinct, that tingling at the base of his skull, but tonight he's confident. He'd set up an early warning system at the front door—nothing harmful, but loud enough to distract them and give him time to bug out without notice.

It's a system that's worked plenty of times in the past, so he's just being mildly paranoid when his flight instinct is triggered.

Nothing to worry about.

In theory.

It's a good theory, really.

Too bad, he considers, as he slumps to the ground and unconsciousness in one, that it has no actual basis in reality.

* * *

John watches as Charon drags the man who'd apparently been following them for a while now in through the back door, MacCready bringing up the rear. Up close, the guy doesn't seem so worrisome—hell, he's wearin' a fuckin' _wig_ for Chrissakes.

He scoffs at the hairpiece, which has shifted thoroughly out of place during the man's rough handling, partially revealing a shaved head, ginger stubble coming in fairly strongly with what looks like about a week or so worth of growth.

"So, we got us a ginger snitch. Well, this just gets better n better. What's next? We find out he was a step-kid?" John smirks at his Sunshine, who returns the smile, along with a soft laugh, shaking her head gently.

She sobers and looks up to Charon, then down to MacCready. "Report. What'd you two find out there," she gestures to the captured man, "aside from this lump?"

Charon answers first, ever the soldier, "He had a good position, well hidden." He releases the scruff of the captive's shirt, in favor of slinging Shana's 50 cal from his back and handing it to her. "Your scope was sufficient for the task, but it requires alignment soon. I believe you knocked it askew on that feral yesterday."

Shana nods and accepts the gun, lifting and slotting it reverently across her own back. "You want to fix it, or want me to?"

Ah, here we go again with this... _thing_ that's been going on for close to two months, now—some stranger-than-usual tug-o-war between these two that still don't make a damn bit of sense.

She gives him a choice.

He hems and haws.

She waits him out until he finally growls the most painful, reluctantly chosen answer on Earth, then she nods and accepts it like God's written truth or some shit.

It's a cycle they've been going at for almost ever since she got his contract, but this more recent shit just feels like... like she's tryin' to teach a grown man how to make decisions for the first time. And there's an odd _weight_ to her insistence, like she hangs everything in her life on what answer he gives, each time. Like nothin' else matters, in those moments. Maybe to her, nothin' does.

Watchin' it happen... feels bizarrely intimate _._

It's just fuckin' _weird,_ honestly. He's not too sure what to make of it.

But—breaking the mold for once—there's no hesitation from the giant, not this time.

"I would be honored." Says it with that ridiculously straight face he always wears, but the tone of his voice tells a different story. That tone says he _means_ it. Every word. All four of 'em.

It throws Shana for a loop, and she ain't the only one, but right now, she's what John's payin' attention to.

She's _stunned_ —mouth just slightly open, eyes wide lookin' up at Charon as though he's just given her the key to life itself. She swallows and shuts her trap in one, lookin' down at her shotgun and checkin' it over as if she hadn't already done that twenty times in the past hour. She nods, head still down, lookin' over her ammo belt now. "Sounds g—" her voice falters, like her throat's too tight to let it through. She clears it and continues, "Sounds good. Mac?" She turns to the merc, her words rushed, "y'find anything else? He leave any surprises for us?"

MacCready shrugs, shaking his head dismissively. "Nah, just a noise trap at the front door. Already got it. Seems like he really was goin' for the non-lethal approach here."

Shana draws in a deep breath and sheaths _Widowmaker_ in the new hip holster John'd had made for her, then carefully lowers herself into a squat by the head of their captive. Her fingers rub hastily against her thumbs, the pads striking each other as if she means to snap them, but never hitting her palm to finish the action. It's a nervous tic he's noticed her using more and more often in the past month, especially.

"Well, let's get on with it." She gestures tersely toward an old and dusty chair decorating the corner of the room. "Hook 'im up to that. Let's see if we can't get him woken up. Our little jailbird has some singin' to do."

* * *

Something wet tingles at the edges of his consciousness, pulling him up from the comfortable darkness surrounding him with unsettlingly rapid urgency.

Wait, what?

When had he fallen asleep?

The last thing he remembers...

Oh.

 _Oh._

Ah, _shit._

Well, now he's dripping, with... water? Not dirty water, either—smells cleaner than he is. Well, that's fancy.

"He's coming to. Who do you wish to have interrogate him?" A gravelly, forceful voice rumbles nearby, turning away at the midway point through the question, addressing it to someone further away.

"I will." An authoritative, cautious female voice. The General. "But stay close."

"Y'sure about that, Sunshine? Might need to get nasty here." Another rough voice, though this one's lighter, smoother, familiar—Mayor John Hancock, formerly John McDonough of Diamond City.

"Yeah Bossy, maybe let us do the dirty work?" Lighter, younger voice, also familiar—Robert Joseph MacCready; Former Mayor of Little Lamplight, former Gunner, still a mercenary for hire.

"How about you all let _me_ decide whether to get _anyone's_ hands dirty?" The General finally interjects, clearly flabbergasted. "Goddamn, and people call _me_ bloodthirsty."

" _Who_ calls you bloodthirsty?" Hancock again.

"Not now, John." The rustle of skin sliding on thick fabric. "He's awake." There's a smile in her voice. "Listening, even." Appreciation. "Smart one."

"Thanks, I try." He peels his eyes open and lifts his head, only to snap his eyes shut and gingerly shake his noggin from the dizziness. He got all the info he needed from that little slice of vision anyway. "Oh, wow. Whoever knocked me out, you are a real pro, gotta tell ya. Primo work, seriously."

A grumble from the deeper of the two ghoulish voices in the group is the immediate response, followed by a fairly unattractive snort from the General, who deigns to speak again, "That would be Charon." She still pronounces it strangely, with a 'k' sound, like she's referencing the ancient Greek mythos. "There isn't much he's not a pro at." She bends down, bracing her hands on her thighs as she lowers herself to eye level with him, which he realizes quite keenly when he risks another peek for curiosity's sake. "So, guy, since you've been such a nice guy so far, why don't you keep bein' nice and tell me your name?"

 _Holy blue eyes! No wonder she'd hooked two of the 'Wealth's most notoriously impossible to bag bachelors. Those are the kind of eyes someone could take a trip and get lost in. Wait, why can he see them so... ah, shit._

It's only now he realizes that his sunglasses are hooked carefully in her top, dangling perfectly over her sternum like a ripe mutfruit just dying to be plucked from the bush. And now she can _see_ him staring at her chest.

 _Damn it. He's gonna have to work extra hard to control his tells now. Does she realize how much of an advantage she has right now? No, she can't possibly. Wait, what'd she ask? Oh, right._

"Well, I don't know your name either, doll."

An arched brow over a smirk that spells trouble, a throaty chuckle slipping through parted, slightly chapped but full lips. "You've got balls, guy, I'll give ya that. But I think you know exactly who my companions and I are. Introductions aren't _strictly necessary_ on our side. But alright." She nods amicably and flashes him a brilliant smile, then straightens and points to her crew, one at a time.

"John Hancock; Mayor of Goodneighbor, and my boyfriend." The ghoul in question smirks at her inclusion of their relationship status, but stays otherwise silent, only eying Deacon with a crafty gaze.

"R.J. MacCready; mercenary, sniper, my adopted little brother." MacCready rolls his eyes and blushes slightly at the brother title, but doesn't actively object, only adjusting his grip on his truly impressive rifle in a not-so-subtle threat as he, too, eyes their captive warily.

"And last, but far from least, Charon; ferryman o'er the rivers Styx and Acheron—the escort of your soul to Hades for tonight if you prove uncooperative... so I'd suggest being nice to him." Ah, so she _is_ using the mythological version. Interesting. Deacon cranes his neck to get a good look at the massive creature who'd somehow snuck up on him in complete silence and blackjacked him, easy as taking candy from a baby. The stone golem of a ghoul now stands guard beside the General, arms crossed, in silence.

He's never going to underestimate the stealth a humongous person is capable of again. Lesson learned; message received.

He looks to the woman of the hour, the leader of this rag-tag band of expert misfits, and cocks his head. "And you, sugar?"

She snorts, more softly this time, at his address, meeting the Mayor's eyes with an incredulous look, then turning back to Deacon with something akin to pitying amusement. She lays a hand on her chest, just above his glasses. "I'm Shana Stewart, General of the Minutemen." She crosses her arms under her chest, barely avoiding trapping his eyewear beneath them. Narrowing her eyes at him, still smirking, she finally demands, "Now, who the hell are you?"

He sighs for dramatic effect, slumping a bit like he's actually giving in. "John Grimsby."

No more than that. No occupation, no background. Not yet.

The General slides a look to her taller ghoul, then begins to gesture rapidly with her hands.

The huge ghoul responds in kind, with different motions, his expression uncertain, questioning.

She repeats her movements, more slowly this time.

Recognition dawns over his features, and he gives what's ostensibly a reply to this hand-signal communication she's... apparently in the process of teaching him.

Looking back at Deacon, she tilts her head and returns to her earlier position, hands on her thighs, just short of her knees. She doesn't say anything, just slowly looks his features over, as if searching him for something, examining him under the microscope of her scrutiny.

By the time he's fiercely tamping down the desperate desire to fidget because he feels practically _naked_ under her careful inspection, she smiles. It's the kindest, most genuine smile he's seen in years, and it _utterly_ unsettles him; mostly because of the intensely steady eye contact that comes with it.

"So, _Johnny_. Whatcha followin' us for, hmm?"

He doesn't have to reach very far for the nervous persona he needs to pull this off; she's already got him more off-kilter than he's generally comfortable with. But he's _got this_. "Ahh heh, well, curiosity, mostly. I mean, you're famous!" He eeks out an awkward laugh. "I just wanted to see you and your people in action, first-hand."

Her smile remains every bit as pleasant as it first was, throughout his falsified explanation. "That so? A fan, huh? Why didn't you head to one of our settlements? That would've been a hell of a lot safer. Or at _least_ let us know you were around, so we wouldn't shoot you by accident?"

He gives her a sheepish grimace, pulling off the guilty look like the pro he is. "Shit, my bad. You're right, I probly shoulda said somethin'. I ah... I just didn't want you guys to act different, you know? People don't behave the same when they got an audience."

"Ah, I see." She nods sagely. "So you wanted to observe us in our natural environment. See what all the fuss was about."

He nods all too eagerly. "Exactly! And man, from what I seen, you guys are somethin' else. Like _wow_. I've seen some shit in the wasteland, but you really live up to the legend, y'know?"

She huffs one small laugh, finally breaking eye contact for more than just a blink or two here and there, pushing off her knees and standing straight again, looking down on him exactly like a large predator eyes prey. "Yeah, I bet. Too bad you're a lying sack of shit because if you weren't, we could always use someone to help out the cause."

Shit. It hadn't been the strongest cover in the world, sure; but it shouldn't have been _that_ obvious.

She glances to the giant to her left. "We don't want any lying sacks of shit in our ranks or settlements, do we, Charon?"

"We do not."

She turns to the Mayor. "Do you want any of those in Goodneighbor, John?"

Hancock chuckles, shaking his head. "Well, we already got plenty of those, so I'd normally say sure, why not; but this particular lyin' sack a shit? Nah, I think I'll skip havin' him join the community. Thanks, all the same, darlin'."

She winks at her ghoulfriend. "Anytime, baby."

Returning her attention to her prisoner, she lets out a slow sigh, then jerks her chin at him. "How about you tell me who sent you to follow us? I've already got strong suspicions, but having them confirmed would be lovely. To be honest, it really doesn't matter who it is in the long run, but I am curious. Call it a... personal interest."

 _More like a personal obsession._

He rolls his eyes, playing off the caught-out fraud to a T. "Alright, alright, fine. That wasn't the best story I could've come up with, I'll admit it, but it wasn't _all_ lies! I really _am_ a fan. Seriously, you guys are as big as the legends of the Institute or the Brotherhood, or hell, even the Railroad. And you, lady," he focuses very specifically on her, smile full of the most genuine appreciation he can muster, "you are truly an inspir—"

"Alright, cut the crap," she interrupts. "Fan or no, you're still lying; and trying to distract me with personal flattery isn't going to work. So what say we slice right on down to the bone of this matter and be straight with each other?"

She bends over again, much closer to him now; her posture slightly more predatory this time, elbows out, stance wider. "I think you're from an organization I've been poking my nose into the business of lately, and you were sent to tail me and report back."

Sighing as if it's burdening her to even tell him all this, she continues, "Only reasons I wanted to question you myself are the following: You've never left a lethal trap or tried to attack us, and you've stayed well out of sight, meaning you mean us no actual harm, but never intended to draw actual attention to yourself." She tilts her head, simpering at him lightly. "I can appreciate that. Even respect it to a point. Hell, the only reason we noticed you is because I'm paranoid and," she hooks her thumb over her shoulder at the taller ghoul, "he's got more experience in the wasteland than all of us combined, so he's basically Death himself. Hard to put anything past Death."

She chuckles quietly and brings her hands up. "You've got two options here." She ticks one finger off. "Either you tell me if I'm right about who sent you, and I let you go unharmed, or," she ticks off another finger, "I torture the answer out of you." She grimaces, glancing to the side and shaking her head ruefully before she focuses back on him. "I gotta say, I'm _really_ not a fan of the second option."

She draws even closer, almost nose to nose with him now. "You gonna force me to use option two, _Johnny_?" she asks, her tone mocking, especially when she says his name, "or you gonna use the common sense option and go on your merry way?"

He pretends to ponder his answer, weighing it carefully before he looks back up at her and asks, all candid confusion: "Which organization was it again? I wasn't clear on that part, exactly."

The slight twitch of her lower right eyelid is the only indication that she's losing any patience at all with him, but it's _more_ than enough of a tell for him. Still, the General steels herself admirably, and answers, "The Railroad, obviously. If you were Brotherhood of Steel or Institute, we wouldn't still be talking, because you'd be a puddle of bodily fluids and mashed bone on the floor. I don't tolerate bigots, murderers or child stealers."

He frowns slightly over a tiny, crooked smirk. "Which one's which, to you?"

Her expression calms from threatening to thoughtful for a moment, as she answers, "They're both bigots and murderers. But the Institute's the kidnapper. And they'll both get what's coming to them if I have anything to say about it. I'm looking for allies."

She looks him right in the eyes, making sure he's listening. "I'll make this simple: Your people can either stand with me against those bastards or get the fuck out of my way. Their choice."

He snorts and lets his view drift behind her, slipping over her companions, then back to her. "So what, you expect me to run back home with my tail tucked, message in hand, and let you follow me to our super secret clubhouse? That how you think this is gonna work?"

That surprises a laugh out of her. She grins and straightens, folding her hands at the base of her spine in quiet confidence. "I don't give a flying fuck what you do, bub. I'm following the Freedom Trail, so I'll get there by myself, eventually. I'm not worried about it. But at least now you have something useful to report."

He tilts his head curiously. "You're assuming I didn't already have something to report?"

She gives him an incredulous smile. "Nothing as interesting as hearing the truth from the horse's mouth, _Johnny_."

She takes the few steps necessary to round to the back of his chair, and after a few seconds of tugging, he feels his bonds fall away.

He cautiously stays right where he is. No point pushing his luck. "I suppose you have a point, General." He watches as she comes back around to the front, giving him plenty of room to stand. He stays put. "Anything else you want me to tell them? I mean, if I'm gonna play the messenger here, may as well get it all outta the way now, right?"

She shrugs, uncaring. "I'd say 'be my ally or stay out of my way' is clear enough. I'll probably be there to deliver it myself within a month anyway, so take it there or don't, doesn't matter to me. You're free to go, but don't ever tail my people without alerting us again, or we _will_ consider it a hostile move."

She gestures to MacCready. "Mac, his gun."

The sniper reluctantly retrieves Deacon's rifle, handing it to him.

Both ghouls draw their shotguns, keeping them pointed at the ground, but ready.

The General holds a hand out to him. "It was good to meet you, guy, even if you lied at least most of the time. I don't blame you for trying to protect your people. I'd do the same for mine in a heartbeat if it came to it."

He looks to her hand, then her, taking her extended olive branch after some considerable hesitation. "Thanks. Same to you, General."

* * *

John waits until the guy is out of earshot before he speaks. "Think he'll actually relay the message?"

I glance at him as he asks the question, pursing my lips and sucking in a deep breath as I shake my head. "Dunno. Probably. He's got nothing to lose by tellin' 'em."

"Mm," he offers, noncommittally. He nods at my chest, eyes glued to right between my ladies. "You gonna keep those shades?"

I pluck them from my top and open them, sliding them on.

"Yep-uh."


	2. Chapter 2

The crackling of the flames licking up over the branches and broken bits of furniture in the fire echoes softly against the walls and high ceiling of the warehouse they've holed up in for the night, creating the only break in the quiet surrounding the party, aside from the occasional scraping of utensils against freshly heated food containers.

It's been a week and a half since they interrogated the man who'd been stalking the pack, but nothing in her plans have changed, despite the event. She still seems to be taking her time reaching into the core of her new obsession to poke and prod at it until it answers her questions.

While he appreciates the slow, careful approach she's taking, the other present pack members are less receptive to her strategy.

The Mayor has already advised a retreat to Goodneighbor for rest and restocking, and the mercenary she considers a brother is impatient to return for the sake of several jobs that apparently await his attention.

He has no opinion on the matter.

He will follow her, regardless.

* * *

Fire's dying down by the time John finally gets sick of it all.

 _Something's_ goin' on between those two.

He just... fuck.

He can't actually put his finger on it.

And it's drivin' him completely' fuckin' crazy.

The shit that's been brewin' between 'em for the past few months just keeps simmerin' into a thicker and thicker broth; so much so that it's practically a fuckin' tar pit at this point, and he's...

He's fuckin' worried.

He's not sure _what_ to think of whatever's stewin' between 'em, but he needs to talk to his Sunshine about it openly, and he can't do that with half of the issue hangin' around all the goddamn time. Bein' as she's refusin' to give the giant orders outside of combat now, he can't exactly get her to tell Charon to just go outta hearin' range or anything, so he's stuck.

Somehow, he's gotta get his girl away from the ghoul whose life she basically holds in her hands.

Once upon a time, the obvious answer would've been sex, because surely the guy wouldn't stick around to listen to that shit. But no; apparently the guy's not just stone-faced, but a masochistic eunuch too, 'cause as many times as John's tried to use that approach, whenever he goes back outside for a smoke, there's Charon—standin' watch, nary a boner in sight.

S'fuckin' frustratin', s'what it is.

He peers across the flickering tongues of the fire at the ferryman, as Shana so often introduces him, and sighs, lips pursed and eyes narrowed in frustration. The taller ghoul's working on some small wood engraving of some sort, only glancing up on occasion to give Shana a visual once-over, before returning to his little project.

That's not unusual.

What _is_ unusual is the second, hesitant look he slips over her only seconds after, which is clearly not his ordinary status check, but something else entirely, judging by the significantly surreptitious nature of the action—the slow, raking gaze he sweeps over her form, the slightly guilty shifting of his seated position, the barely-there pursing of his lips, the unbidden swallowing, as if someone had actually caught him with his hand in the muffin basket.

Meanwhile, Shana seems almost... willfully oblivious to it all.

She never returns the other ghoul's looks, unless she already happens to be looking in his direction. The only time she seems flustered over his attentions at all is when he's actually overt about it, which is becoming less and less rare as the days go on. But otherwise, she treats him exactly as she always has.

 _The hell happened between these two?_

One way or another, he's gonna find out.

* * *

"Darlin, y'mind if I borrow Charon to help me go find some more shit for the fire? Figure it'll go faster with two of us, y'know."

His attention snaps up to focus on the short ghoul across the fire from him, immediately putting forth the effort to gauge the intention behind the man's odd request. It's rare the Mayor shows any interest in his existence, beyond a general sort of politeness, which he has judged to be more for his Mistr—for _Shana's_ sake, than for anything else. He swivels his head to catch her immediate reaction to the solicitation, only to find her looking right back at him, her gaze steady before it absently falls back down to the fire.

She shrugs, the gesture overly casual to his eyes. "It's up to him." She half-points in his general direction. "Ask him."

The Mayor's smile tightens as his focus shifts to Charon now, arching a terse brow at him. "Well, how 'bout it, then? Mind lendin' a hand?" The smaller ghoul gestures to the fire, nodding toward it at the same time, before looking back up at him. "S'gonna need some more fuel if it's gonna last the night."

Of course, it will. He's more than aware of how cold the nights have been for the past month, so the man pointing out the obvious is not only odd but suspicious.

Pushing that thought aside, the fact that more fuel is indeed needed drives him to nod his agreement and stand, gathering himself and his weapon in preparation to follow the Mayor. He casts a precautionary glance around the room, allowing it to slide over Shana twice before he finally moves his feet to shadow her lover.

It takes mere moments to catch up to the significantly shorter man, though he shortens his stride to match Hancock's noticeably jittery gait once he reaches him. When he finally takes a moment to pause next to a small pile of refuse, with the pretense of searching it for low-toxicity burning materials, it is long after they've left the earshot of their human pack mates.

Hancock yanks a split and ragged two-by-four from the pile, tossing it to the side in the beginnings of a 'burnables' stack, then takes a deep breath and slips a mild glare to Charon, pausing with his hand on what looks like a chair leg. "So."

Charon lifts a brow at the Mayor, then tugs a partly rotted stack of pallets out and tosses them at the burnables.

The other ghoul ticks his jaw to the side thoughtfully, thin lips pursed into a thinner line, just before he rights himself and speaks. "Been tryin' t'figure you out for a while now, but it's hard to get to know a ghoul when he don't wanna be known. See," he grunts, fingers curling around the chair leg and dislodging it after a few tries, "normally, I wouldn't bother, but you've got this whole life debt complex goin' on with my Sunshine—and, wouldn't ya know, not knowin' ya well enough to b'sure if I can even trust ya kinda puts a kink in things, and not the good kind."

Charon sighs and gets to work breaking down the pallets and chair. "Is there a—" _SNAP!_ "—point to this—" _Creak, crack!_ "—discussion?"

The Mayor's eyes narrow, hands landing on and gripping a smaller table top. "Yeah, there is. Point is," he makes several attempts at pulling the table free, but it stubbornly denies his efforts, "even though I might not trust your ass, she _does_. So, since she does, I've sat back, watchin' t'see how you handled her."

After several more tries at the table, Charon lends his own strength to the effort, and the reticent dining furniture finally gives in. Charon begins the process of breaking it down as he inquires, "And what have you deduced from your observations?"

Hancock leans back against a rusted out forklift, black eyes sharp as he crosses his arm and studies Charon while he works. At length, he deigns to answer, "A lot, actually. But not enough, at the same time."

Charon doesn't respond, keeping his attention on his work as he gives the other ghoul time to elaborate on his own.

Finally, by the time Charon is nearly finished breaking the last leg off the table, the Mayor pipes up again. "You respect her, more'n that contract she holds calls for. I think you might've followed her even without it if ya had the option." Hancock looks down, fiddling absently with a large splinter of the two-by-four. "I think whatever you got with her goes a helluva lot deeper than contracted obedience."

He looks up, meeting Charon's eyes, though his fingers continue to twirl the short length of wood. "I think somethin' happened a few months back that changed how you see her somehow. No idea what it was," he shrugs now, peering back down to his makeshift toy, "but the shift's been pretty damn unmistakable. She's noticed, too, but I think she's tryin' to ignore it, hard as she can." He peeks back up, lips pressed into a grim line. "It's a battle even she can't win."

Hancock shakes his head, his attention shifting over to where Shana sits by the fire. "So, the point of all this, is that she's too damn trusting. I'm tryin' t'make sure she don't get hurt without reason here." He turns back to Charon. "By you, or anyone else. I don't know ya well enough to say y'won't end up hurtin' her, so... I guess I'm just tryin' t'figure out what your angle is here."

He half-chuckles, half-huffs a laugh, as if the thought occurring to him is so highly improbable that it amuses him, but also compels him to find the truth of it. "I mean, are y'sweet on her, or somethin'?"

* * *

John watches carefully, drinking in every detail he can manage to catch as he sees Charon stiffen, his eyes widening just enough to be noticeable if you're payin' attention.

 _Ahh, so_ _ **that's**_ _the deal. Well, shit. Guess it's not so surprising; she did manage to bag him and Nick, after all, but that's just the thing—she's already_ _ **got**_ _two. And despite her willfully ignoring Charon's altered behavior, there's no guarantee she knows or understands what her stone giant of a protector is goin' through._

 _That's the killer, though._

' _Cause, even if she doesn't..._

 _...She'd_ _ **want**_ _to._

 _Because god save anyone who doesn't want help with their problems when she's around._

"Well, shit," Hancock voices that particular thought aloud, then sighs and shifts a bit awkwardly, chucking the little wooden shank he'd been twiddling with down to the ground and crossing his arms pensively. "You tell her yet?"

The corner of Charon's mouth twitches into a rueful grimace, then holds, just as he gives a tiny, subtle shake of his head.

John huffs the ghost of a laugh at his response, both brows lifting over a tiny wince. "D'you _want_ to?"

An immediate and much sharper shake of Charon's head gives him all the answer he needs, but the ghoul further clarifies, "She would assume... it would... my contract... complicates matters." He visibly sags in defeat at the admission. "She has... already granted me every grace available, within its restrictions. Even if she had a desire to... she would see any potential reciprocation as taking advantage of the contract."

Hancock mulls that over for a long moment, then slowly nods. "You're probly right, my man; but even if she does end up seein' it like that, shouldn't _she_ be the one t'decide that? Y'know she ain't too keen on people makin' decisions for her—and lemme tell ya, it's doubly so when it comes to shit like this." He shrugs, reaching into his coat's breast pocket and retrieving his mentats tin. "Not t'mention, she might just surprise ya—she shocked the shit outta me n Nicky with the deal we've got right now between us. Could be, she's not as opposed to the idea as you think."

"Then again," he continues, waggling his head a bit as he speaks around the three chalky tablets he's sliding between his molars, "she could say no, too. I can't tell ya." He smirks as he grinds the mentats to dusty paste and swallows, his view lifting to find his Sunshine watching them curiously from the fire. "She's the least predictable woman I've ever met. I'd say, just find you a moment with her and talk it out, see what happens."

Charon scowls at him spectacularly, his expression of disapproval far more obvious than it usually is. "Why would you suggest such a path? What if she accepts the idea? Will it not cause interference with your current arrangement?"

John peers back up at Charon, countenance speculative. "Depends. You wantin' t'join us, or ya wantin' somethin' more personal-like?"

The giant takes some time to think that over, his answer hesitant when he finally gives it. "I do not know."

Hancock arches a brow at his response, then shoves off from the forklift and busies himself with picking up and tucking bits of their salvaged fuel under his arm. "Well," he offers, as he picks up the last piece he can handle on his own for this trip, "I'd say figure it out, and take it up with her," he nods and points at Shana with the table leg in his hand, "then if she likes the idea, we'll figure shit out from there."

Charon slowly nods, taking a breath and straightening from his previously defeated posture. "I will consider it. I..." He looks down at John, "would... appreciate it, if you would keep this quiet, for now. I will bring the matter to her myself, in... due time."

John looks the taller ghoul over once, then shoves the table leg in his hand into the cramped stack under his arm temporarily, to extend his hand to Charon. "Secret's safe with me, my man. Just do me a favor and you treat her right, no matter how this clusterfuck ends up, yeah?"

Charon eyes his hand, then shakes it firmly after only a moment's hesitation, looking him straight in the eye. "You have my word."

Hancock smirks and retrieves the table leg from beneath his arm, then leaves Charon to pick up his own stack and cart it back to the fire. He chuckles softly, shaking his head as he picks his way across the liberally littered concrete floor back to his Sunshine.

Never in his life could he have predicted things would turn out like this. In a relationship with a possessed synth detective and a woman out of time who'd taken the 'Wealth by its throat and finally wrangled it into some sort of order, and now suddenly there's the potential for yet another troubled soul to join their little family as much more than just a pack mate. And that's not even touching on the forces she wants to go to war against, or the secretive organization she's determined to make an ally of. She's already the leader the Commonwealth needs, and soon she'll be even more than anything they could've hoped for.

And she's his.

...And Nick's.

And who knows? Maybe she'll be Charon's, too.

It's the kind of shit you just can't make up.

This is his life.

Well, shit.


	3. Chapter 3

"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me."

Much as none of us want to believe it, the universe is apparently _not_ fucking kidding us.

The disbelief is palpable as we all stare down at my notebook, where I've scribbled the ultimate conclusion of what the Railroad's Freedom Trail code is.

 _R-A-I-L-R-O-A-D_

Seriously. Railroad.

"I'm trying to decide if these guys are really, _really_ stupid, or just think they're hilarious." Mac intones, shaking his head and eying me searchingly. "Either way, I'm not laughin'. You sure you wanna get wrapped up with these goons, sis?"

"Gotta agree with Mac here, Sunshine—if they can't be serious enough to even make a decent password, how reliable is their help gonna be?"

Charon nods his concurrence. "Agreed. It's difficult to believe that an organization with a reputation like theirs can be so cavalier about their security, but perhaps their reputation is merely that—a reputation. It's entirely possible it has no basis in fact. We could indeed be chasing a ghost, Shana."

I peer up at him, gauging his expression carefully. He's been getting more and more bold over the past few months, ever since I gave him what little freedoms I could manage to, and watching his evolution over that time has been... intriguing. The fact that he's been easily calling me by my name _by_ _choice_ for the past week straight without any hesitation at all is even more curious. I smile at the thought that he may finally be getting the hang of this freedom thing.

Shrugging and looking back down to the page, I reply, "You may all be right. I don't know yet. I think there's more to this, but there's no way to know for sure until we get in there." I lift my gaze to the old church's plaque just beyond our little group, pursing my lips at the sight with a whispered sigh. "We've come this far; no point giving up when we've almost reached our destination."

John shakes his head but readies his shotgun anyway. "Alright. Long as you're sure. We got your back, always."

Charon and Mac only offer firm nods.

It's more than enough.

We forge into the battered, darkened church, shooting and grenading and stabbing and bashing our way through the ferals, all the way down into the catacombs. By the time we're standing in front of a combination dial, Charon is nursing a bite, and we're all bearing several scratches and bruises that need tending. I glance back at Charon and pause to dig through my pack for a moment, procuring our last bottle of the irradiated sludge water—filtered though it may be for trash and the like—that ghouls seem to prefer using over stimpaks when they can. I hand him the bottle wordlessly, pressing it to his chest when he starts to act like he's about to refuse it.

"Don't need that to get infected." It's all I offer. It's not a command. It's just a practical voice of concern, one he can't logically deny.

He presses his lips into a thin line but doesn't argue, taking the bottle and quietly tending to the rather nasty-looking bite.

Nodding my satisfaction, I turn to the large dial on the wall, looking it over with a disgruntled grimace. I slowly input the pitiful password, and like clockwork, the wall beside it retracts and slides away. I snort at the theatrics, arching a brow at John and nodding to the empty, dark space beyond. "Dramatic, much?"

He shakes his head. "No accounting for taste, I guess."

I huff a laugh, shaking my own head, then check over my little pack, ensuring everyone's ready. Despite our scrapes and Charon's now rapidly healing feral bite, we're in good shape—as ready for this shit as we'll ever be.

I draw my 111 Special and lead the way into the darkness.

Before I can even think of keying on my pip-boy's light, we're greeted with floodlights, which temporarily obscure the features of the three figures across the room from us. The minigun I can see hanging from the hands of the one on the far left is clear enough, though.

"Stop right there," demands a fairly authoritative female voice, which seems to be coming from the middle of the three figures. "You went through a lot of effort to arrange this meeting. But, before we go any further, answer my questions. Who the hell _are_ you?"

I pluck the sunglasses from between my ladies and slide them on, greatly thankful to them for the ability to see past that stupid floodlight. I jerk my chin toward the woman in the middle, which I can now tell is flanked by the _female_ minigun wielder—what is it with women and miniguns in the wasteland, seriously—and a male pistol-bearer. Fair enough. We've got twice the guns on our side—not that I plan on using them, but still—so I'm confident here.

"Depends." I curl an open hand over my hip. "Who're you? We came here looking for the Railroad, via the Freedom Trail. Did we find it, or are you just a really dramatic theatrical group who puts on impromptu shows for whoever happens to break your oh-so-difficult-to-decipher code?"

The disapproval is thick in the woman's voice as she responds. "You'd do well to lose the sarcasm, stranger. But if you're here for the Railroad, you've found it. I'm Desdemona, leader of the Railroad. Now again, who are you?"

"Oh c'mon boss, you don't even have a guess?" calls a familiar voice from the darkened hall behind Desdemona, which she turns toward curiously. Sure enough, as he steps forward, I see it's the spy we interrogated weeks ago. "You're havin' a party! My invitation get lost or somethin'? I'd feel insulted if I wasn't already so sad."

Desdemona ignores his bullshitting and cuts right to the chase. "I need intel, Deacon. Who are these people?"

Deacon? How interesting. I knew he was lying about at least part of his name, but... well, it's a concern for later.

Deacon, apparently, leans against the brick archway behind him, appearing casual as you please, to the common observer. What Charon likely sees, and what I absolutely see, is the caution the man maintains, directly in spite of his affectation of relaxation. He definitely wants _someone_ to believe he's at ease, though who he thinks he's fooling is unclear.

"Well boss, as they were introduced to me a few weeks ago, let's see here..." he gestures to each person in turn, "we got the Mayor of Goodneighbor himself, John Hancock. Then there's Robert Joseph MacCready; mercenary, sniper, former Mayor of Little Lamplight, all the way up by the Capitol. Then we got Charon with a 'K'; who is apparently either the ferryman to Hades or Death himself, I'm not clear on that one. Then, of course, that's Shana Stewart, General of the Minutemen, de facto leader of the entire Commonwealth. I mean, if you wanna get technical."

Desdemona looks at us, back at Deacon, then back at us again, seeming... apprehensively impressed. She nods toward us, still speaking to Deacon and turning to him partway through her query. "This is the group that captured you?"

Deacon nods. "Yep-uh." I snap my attention to him at the eerily familiar way of saying that word. "Got me all trussed up pretty-like and asked me a bunch of questions, then gave me that nice little message to bring back." He looks at me. "Which I did, by the by."

"Figured you might. Nothing to lose at that point, right, _Johnny_?" I cross my arms, tilting my head and tossing him an impish smile. "Or is it Deacon, now? Hmm. Maybe I'll call you Johnny instead."

He visibly shudders. "Hey call me whatever you like, just don't get me confused with your boyfriend there."

John growls softly at the implication. "Not fuckin' likely, pal."

I tip my head toward John. "What he said." I straighten and focus on Desdemona. "So are our credentials good enough to warrant a little pow-wow with the Railroad, or did we come all this way for nothing?"

Desdemona peers back at Deacon. "You're vouching for them, then?"

Deacon quickly nods. "Oh hell yeah. They're definitely the genuine articles. We're solid, Des."

Desdemona's shoulders rise and fall with the steadying breath she takes as she swivels to face us again, dipping her head once in assent. "Alright then. Let's talk."

* * *

Deacon is outright _giddy_.

Oh sure, he's still worried, and paranoid, and terminally curious how this is gonna turn out... but if the General sticks to her guns, this meeting could be the start of a whole new Commonwealth. It's been a long damn time since he's had enough wiggle room to _hope_. Now if everyone can only keep the peace, things might actually get somewhere around here.

What a novelty.

He's watching all of them carefully, but the giant and the General are the two he's focusing on the most. Not that the two quasi-politicians in the room aren't worth keeping an eye on, but they're simpler creatures, easier to guess at their motivations than the two main predators of the group.

Even as the politicians keep their sights trained on Desdemona, General Stewart shifts targets just infrequently enough to appear politely interested in what the boss is saying, while maintaining a bead on the occupants of the entire room. Charon is being far less subtle about it all, flat-out staring down each and every agent, himself included.

He's gotta admit, the General's assertion of the big guy being Death doesn't seem too far off-base when he's staring a hole through your skull. _Sheesh_. He's not really sure what to call the feeling that stare induces in him, and he's got sunglasses to hide his reaction behind.

'Unnerving' doesn't quite cut it.

Soul-draining despair derived from utter terror might be more accurate, though.

Regardless, if he didn't already have a healthy respectful fear of the monstrous ghoul at the General's side, he'd have one now.

But, all of this is merely a distraction; idle observations as he soaks in the situation.

Seems the talks are going well. Desdemona wants to induct the General as a tourist. Pfft. Time to step in.

"Boss, c'mon. Let me take her out on a mission, show her the ropes, let her prove herself. I bet she could make agent in no time."

Desdemona's attention cuts to him sharply. "Deacon, you know she'll require more than a single mission before I'll be comfortable accepting that." She shakes her head, then pauses, seeming to consider something. She shakes a pointed finger at him thoughtfully. "However, if you're volunteering to train her, by all means, do. Your ops could use some time to cool off, so you have some time. Yes... in fact, she's your new assignment. You haven't actually had training duty in six months, I'd say it's about time, wouldn't you?"

He smirks. That turned out better than he'd hoped. "Aww, Des, how'd you know it was my birthday? You always get me the best presents."

She rolls her eyes. "Can it, Deacon. Get her familiarized with H.Q., then check with Carrington. Last I heard, he has a backlog that'd be perfect for training."

He grimaces. "Eugh. You're not sellin' me on the appeal there, boss. Besides, I've already got an op for us all worked out. Trust me, you'll like it."

Desdemona shakes her head and sighs. "Fine, but make sure you cover the basics before you come back. And report to Carrington when you do."

He tosses up his best finger guns, clicking his tongue to match. "You got it, boss." He turns to the General, waving her on. "C'mon, let's give you the grand tour."

Before he can make it down the first step, he hears Desdemona's objection. "I don't think so. Just her, not all of you. It's bad enough this many people know where we are, but we can't compromise our operations like this. She'll be perfectly safe, I promise you, but we cannot allow—"

"They go where I go," the General interrupts evenly, "we're a _pack_ , a family, not lone wolves. I came here looking for allies; I'm not interested in just joining your cause alone. If you can't accept _my_ allies, then I'll happily leave, withdrawing the support of the Minutemen right along with me." She crosses her arms, a subtle smirk prying at the corner of her mouth. "Your choice."

Desdemona chews on the inside of her cheek as she considers, an old habit she had from before she joined the Railroad. She sighs heavily, releasing her cheek in favor of setting her jaw tightly and jerking it toward them. "You trust your people to keep silent about this?"

"Implicitly," General Stewart replies instantly, releasing her arms' tight fold and drawing her hands to her lower back instead, coming to an easy parade rest. "They wouldn't be in my pack if I didn't trust them with everything."

The boss looks each of them over slowly, evaluating each for a few moments before she finally nods. "Fine. If Deacon's vouching for you, and you're vouching for them, then why don't we just break all the rules?" She shakes her head and turns to the stairs, waving them on. "Come on, let's get this over with."

Deacon smiles, heading down the stairs ahead of them all to hide it. He can feel the shift in the air, the potential stirring there. The future they never could've had until this moment.

He can't wait to see what it holds.


	4. Chapter 4

Aim, fire, bash; aim, fire, crush; aim, fire, _rend_ —

 _Searing pain_ , armor takes the brunt of it, but it still burns; _must protect_ , obliterate every threat, _must protect_ , blow them all to bits, _must protect_ , kill _everything_.

A stimpak pierces his back, the familiar sting and the hissing sound of the cylinder emptying a comfort, a reassurance: _she's alive, she has his back, he's kept her safe_.

The pain recedes, only to be replaced by a new burn; though it, too, heals near-instantly.

The liar slaps a stealth-boy onto his wrist, making a break for the back of the room and aiming for the higher ground of the balcony that makes up the observation deck. This attempt to assist wins him no favors in Charon's mind, however, since he'd insisted on this catastrophe in the first place. Three fighters to clear out an entire complex packed to the brim with synths, every one armed with superior laser weaponry straight from the vaunted labs of the Institute? Insufficient.

Still, they press on.

The few pulse grenades in Shana's pack have been exhausted and she's down to three stimpaks; Charon is out of frags with only two pre-loaded ammo drums remaining. Shana has switched to her _111 Special_ because she can't get close enough for _Widowmaker_ to be effective, but even with them fighting back-to-back as they often do, the sheer numbers the synths are bombarding them with are simply too overwhelming.

He feels her pack dragging down his back to his legs as she sinks to her knees, the pack shifting as she takes it off and slings it in front of her to dig through it. "Mine time!" she calls back to him, tapping his left ankle to indicate the intended direction of her minefield. It takes her twenty seconds to set it up, during which he blasts and tears apart no less than four synths that wander within range.

He feels her stand and tap his left thigh, the silent order to retreat behind the mines tugging sharply at his mind. He follows her through the only hole in the line, which she immediately fills with the plasma mine she's already prepared, handing him a cluster of frag grenades just a moment later, nodding to the archway they've just retreated through. He yanks the central pin, activating the cluster and chucking it cleanly through the gap, into the thickest of the enemy opposition.

The resulting explosion is satisfying, but that elation is short-lived, as the first of many synths begin to make their way through the entryway, obliviously stepping over their fallen brethren to reach them, synthesized voices calling out in a mockery of life.

Shana arms a trail of mines as they retreat backward down the hall, shoving her remaining frags into Charon's empty hip pouch, along with two stimpaks. He knows better than to argue with her, despite his instinct to shove one of them right back at her. He lays down cover fire as they move and she works, doing her part to cover their retreat.

By the time they finally round the corner at the end of the hall, and the explosions stop, even his keen hearing doesn't pick up any sounds of metallic feet treading the floor. He cautiously peeks around the corner, noting the last three intact mines and the trail of utter devastation beyond them. A final explosion from the main control room sounds before silence dominates their senses. He turns back to her and points to the mine in her hand, holding up three fingers and nodding toward the hall.

She confirms his count, putting the mine back into her bag and slipping into position, waiting and trusting his signal to advance.

He nods, rounding the corner first and waving her forward when he sees nothing in the hall has changed since he last saw it. In short order, the remaining mines are disarmed and stowed in her bag. They repeat their cautious clearing habits as they round into the control room, though they prove futile, if still necessary in the end, when they find the now visible liar giving them the 'all clear' signal from the balcony, followed by a thumbs-up.

Charon greatly wishes to rip those thumbs from the liar's hands, only keeping himself in check with the knowledge that Shana would likely object. He settles for curling his lip in a sneer and growling at the man, keeping a free-flowing rant of grumbled curses and desires to maim the liar going as they make their way past the blasted and scorched synth parts strewn about the room and up the stairs.

As they mount the stairs, he mutters aside to Shana quietly, "I would very much enjoy it if you would allow me to punch him—several times."

Shana snorts and giggles softly, trying to keep it down unsuccessfully. She grins up at him, before she's overcome with—mostly—silent laughter, bringing one hand up to cover her mouth, the other to grip his arm for support as she tries to keep herself from doubling over. It takes a few moments for her to compose herself, but when she does, she tries to eye him sternly, though the effect is ruined by the smile that refuses to completely die. "No, Charon. We need this guy, remember? Besides, he's proven useful so far. Give him a chance."

He sighs heavily, but nods and leads the way into the room in reluctant silence.

* * *

Deacon glances toward the General as she approaches, his animated, highly embellished recounting of their epic battle for the Switchboard pausing only long enough to offer a rare respectful nod before he continues.

He carefully avoids even peeping in Charon's general direction. If the ghoul scared him before, he's absolutely _terrified_ of him now. The _things_ he watched him do to those synths...

Deacon has absolutely no doubt that if the ghoul's opponents had actual organs and blood, he would relish disemboweling and spilling every last drop from them.

He does the best he can to suppress the full-body shudder that threatens to surface and mostly succeeds.

By the time the General and her now-reunited posse reach he and Desdemona, he's completed his tale.

When the General confirms every ounce of the grandiose tale he's given Desdemona, even tacking on a subtle enhancement of her own, he can't help the smirk he quietly tosses her way. Hot _damn_ , a woman after his own heart, all around.

As she returns his sly simper, his hope for the Railroad—and by extension, the Commonwealth—soars.

* * *

 _Notebook entry, November third, 2287:_

 _Well, that was a clusterfuck._

We'd gone in having a small idea what we were getting into, but nothing had prepared us for the horde of synths that greeted us in the previously abandoned bunker. Explosives saved the day, but only just, and I am left with mixed feelings on the Railroad, as a whole.

Desdemona and Carrington are both unmitigated hardasses. It makes sense for Desdemona; she's the leader, she has to make the hard decisions. But Carrington? Maybe he's just jaded. But if that were the case, all of the agents would be every bit as weary. Maybe he's just salty about Des getting the leadership instead of him. Long time to hold a grudge. He does seem loyal though, despite whatever resentment he might hold.

Glory's all badass, just like Fahrenheit. I should introduce the two. They'd either end up killing or fucking each other. Maybe both. Hmm... scratch that, probably safer for the rest of the 'Wealth to keep those two atom bombs separated.

Drummer Boy tries really hard to fill a lot of shoes. I feel a bit sorry for the guy, but he definitely does a good job, with what scattered, sparse resources he has.

P.A.M. is... really something. I'll have to dig into that enigma later.

Speaking of robots and computers, I did a bit of digging on the consoles around H.Q. when I could get a moment alone with them, found some interesting bits, but they keep their records surprisingly clean, despite initial appearances.

Tinker Tom is a complete nutter. I _really_ like him. He's just the right mix of brilliance and eccentricity and paranoia that I'd expect to find in an organization like this. And he truly is _brilliant_.

...I talked with him about Nick's situation a bit. He wants me to bring him in to see what he can do.

I'll bring it up with Nicky when we get home if he's around. I hope he is. I'd like to bring him along on the trip to the Glowing Sea we've got planned if we can get Kellogg out of his head. Really, I should've done it ages ago, but I've been putting it off, for him. It's him Kellogg possessed; it should be him that gets to help me make use of the information that put him in that state.

Deacon though... now there's an intriguing nut to crack if I've ever seen one. I have a sneaking suspicion that he was mentioned more than once on the records, though under another name. If I'm correct... well, let's just say, I'm not going to stop calling him Johnny anytime soon. I just might be adding a 'D' initial onto the end sometime later, see his reaction to that.

Apparently, he's joining the ranks of my companions. At least, that's what he insists on.

Not really sure how I feel about it, yet.

Sure, I swap out the people traveling with me sometimes, but there's my companions, and there's my _pack,_ and I'm not entirely certain he'll ever make it into the pack. Maybe he will. Could surprise us all.

Charon hates him. _Cannot_ stand the sight of him. It's _hilarious_. He grumbles more than I've ever heard him before about Deacon traveling with us, and when I catch some of the things he's grumbling it's _everything I can do_ to avoid busting out laughing. Sometimes I just can't help it and I end up looking even crazier than usual, but I pretty much don't care by that point. Too funny.

John's ambivalent, but he definitely doesn't trust him; nor should he, in my opinion.

Mac doesn't openly oppose him, but I've caught him eying the guy with something between annoyance and curiosity. Not sure what to make of that and I haven't had time or gumption to ask him yet.

Deacon gave me this little folded slip of paper that supposedly has his 'recall code' inside it. He claims he's a synth. I have my doubts, but he _does_ rather enjoy Fancy Lads. Not that this in itself is any kind of damning evidence of any sort, but I know for a fact that synths love sweets, and especially have a particular fondness for those little snack cakes. But he's _always_ lying. He was lying about _something_ when he handed me the paper, though I'm not sure whether it was regarding the paper itself, or him being a synth.

I haven't read it yet, either way. Don't plan to.

I can tell when he's lying, but he couches the lies in truths and spreads them out throughout the tales he tells, so it's really, truly difficult to pick out the precise point that he's falsifying.

When he's not spinning stories, he's gathering information; picking up tidbits that are not only useful to the Railroad but to us as well. Naturally, he keeps things to himself when it's something the Railroad alone needs to know. I've caught him more than once slipping off to a dead drop with a ciphered message.

The frequency of his disguise swapping is frankly hilarious, but it is occasionally extremely useful.

In combat, he's a lot less hardy than the rest of my crew, but he knows his way around a rifle and really likes using stealth boys. And explosives, surprisingly. He rather enjoys traps and alarms of all sorts and has an excellent mind for strategy.

He's _good_ at what he does, I'll give him that.

Still, it'll be a while before I get a proper bead on him.

Charon's just as stumped as I am; though he can tell when the man lies just as easily, it's pinpointing the lie that we're losing our focus on.

We'll figure it out.


	5. Chapter 5

There's a subtle kind of beauty in the starkness of the wasteland.

It can be seen in the midst of battle, summoned by the blood of the dead. It's cultivated when a farmer hoes his rows of irradiated soil, making way for the crops to feed the settlement he plants in. It's driven home by the builder's hammer, each nail securing shelter for a new family.

For me, it can be seen in many ways.

This morning, it's in the subtle light of sunrise reflecting in the glossy sheen of John's eyes, showing off the deep gray of his irises in perfect clarity.

Tomorrow, it might be in the gentle glow of Nick's irises, softly lighting the thin space between us.

I can only hope.

For now, I can enjoy this quiet moment. It is pure, with no room for doubt or sorrow.

Charon, Mac, and Deacon are either still asleep or off doing their own morning routines, so I am left to bathe in the sight of my lover in relative peace. I watch as he slowly turns his head to look at me, drinking in my mussed, road-weary self with a fond smile. "Mornin', sunshine."

I smirk and reach over, laying my palm on his jaw, thumb drawing over his lower lip in a careful caress. Impulsively, I prop myself up on my free arm and lean over, pressing my lips to his. The quiet hitch in his breathing tugs my lips into a smile.

This is exactly the moment when a long tongue interjects itself between us to thoroughly lick our faces, followed by a freezing nose and fuzzy muzzle belonging to none other than my beloved Dogmeat; utterly invading our space, shattering the moment.

"That's what you two get for being that sickeningly sweet this early in the morning." Mac offers grouchily as he heads to the fire pit to start breakfast up. He shakes a ration at us in chastisement while he goes. "Let that be a lesson to ya."

John and I dissolve into sleepy chuckles at the fond reprimand. He presses a kiss to my brow when he sobers and tucks me under his chin, holding me and gently stroking my back. "A lesson I'd gladly risk learning again," he murmurs, just loudly enough for me to hear.

I hum my agreement, dropping a chaste peck to his throat. I carefully pull away with a sigh and a smile. "Looking forward to being back home?"

He nods and slowly rolls his upper body away, stretching and popping his back loudly. Groaning as he straightens, he smirks at me. "You know it. Fahr's gonna skin my ass for stayin' out this long. Worth it, but fuck I'm not lookin' forward to that part."

I snicker and shake my head, finally sitting up and patting his chest comfortingly. "Yeah well just go to her first, get it over with quick like a band-aid, y'know?"

He snorts, eying me incredulously. "Have you _met_ her? She gets off on this shit—she's gonna make it as slow as fuckin' possible n'you know it." He groans, rolling flat on his back and rubbing his face with his hands, cursing softly on a tense exhale.

"If it really bothers you so much, you could've told me about it, so we could head back sooner," I counter, shoving him playfully, "wouldn't have been my preference, but I'm not _that_ damn cruel."

He lets his hands fall to rest on his chest, turning his head to look me over, eyes trailing over me lazily. "Nah, doesn't bother me enough t'force the issue, darlin'. 'Sides," he adds, threading the hand closest to me with mine, "I'd rather spend more time with you when I can."

I arch an amused brow at him, returning the soft pressure of his fingers on my own. "That so? What about your hot and heavy love affair with Goodneighbor? I'd have thought you'd be eager to get back to her."

He scoffs at me, feigning offense. "'Course I'm eager to get back to her! Not sure what you're insinuating there, madam, but I'd never truly abandon my town; kinda need it to live in, y'know."

I smile and nod, giving his hand a squeeze and dropping it before I move to stand. "I know. Should make good time—we'll be havin' lunch at the Rail if we get through without trouble." I stretch as I stand, leaning back and bracing my hands on my hips, my spine aligning noisily under the pressure. I groan in relief at the feeling, eyes fluttering open to the upside-down sight of Charon watching me with poorly disguised interest. I promptly close my eyes and straighten, fiercely ignoring the memory his gaze sears into my mind.

Shit.

This... _thing_ , this... I don't know what to call it. All I really know is that I'm really fuckin' tired of having to slog through it. It's like a damn minefield that I didn't lay myself—unpredictable, nerve-wracking... dangerous. Well, more dangerous than usual.

Realistically, I know I can't ignore it, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to _try._ How can I possibly justify any of it? I can't, that's how. It's infuriating.

I'm not stupid. I have a pretty strong inkling that I know exactly what's going on with him. It started months ago when we shared the bed in my apartment. That night was the first time I noticed something was off with him. Not in a bad way, but just... different. And the morning after? Oh _hell._ Something wrecked the hell out of him, and it's somehow connected to why he was... apparently eating my hair in his sleep? I have no idea. He never confessed what that was about, and I never asked. Not sure I want to know.

All I know for sure is after that night, physical intimacy of any sort—the kind that had come oddly easily to us before this—a comforting embrace, an affectionate hand on a cheek, wiping tears away—the kind that held us both together when we needed it most—became incredibly awkward. Neither of us has verbally broached the reason for it, but the awkwardness is as mutual as it was initially confusing.

Once I figured out the why I withdrew completely from any attempts of a physical nature. Why tempt fate? It can't happen, so why exacerbate it? If the wolf is already angry, you don't poke it harder. Unless you're _really_ crazy.

...Am _I_ that crazy?

What? No, no... no! His contract! And I already have two lovers, this is...

I huff, shaking my head and snatching up my _111 Special_ before tromping over to join Mac in readying breakfast, my mood ill. He arches a brow at me but doesn't question it, smart man that he is. He knows if I wanted to talk about it, I'd already be talking.

As I absently stir the insta-mash, I steal a peek over at Charon, where he's settled into cleaning his shotgun—periodically checking his surroundings, checking me, returning to his task. It's a pattern I've had worn into the back of my skull by his constant repetition of it. Even the more recent change in the pattern—the _extra look_ , the one he sometimes chances after he's checked for threats, the one that slides over me like a touch I can almost feel—has become an expected part of our routine, enough that it's when he doesn't do it that I start to worry.

I turn my attention back to the bland mash that I'm trying to make less bland, though I can only do so much with the limited herbs I've found in our travels on the sides of the road. I'll always be grateful to Mama Murphy for teaching me what to look for. The plants mutated so drastically after the bombs fell that there's hardly any surviving herbs still remotely the same plants they were before the war. Mint is largely the same, as is rosemary if you cut off the poisonous thorns. Most everything else has either completely died out, or has new equivalents.

The pepper substitute—a hardy brown-leafed plant with an edible, relatively spicy zing—is what I'm currently crumbling into my hand grinder. After a few good turns, I open it back up and toss the contents into the pot, quietly stirring it in. Salt would be nice, but we haven't had a shipment in recently, so we're saving what we have at home, for special occasions.

Before I can turn my mind back to the issue of Charon, John distracts me by finally dragging himself from his bedroll, shotgun in his holster as he toddles off for his morning piss. He hasn't donned his frock yet, so I get a marvelous view of his saggy jeans as he saunters away to round a nearby tree.

"Sis."

I jerk my attention back to the pot, then Mac. "Yeah?"

He grimaces slightly, leaning toward me and lowering his voice, though why he thinks that'll keep him from being heard by anyone but Deacon—wherever he is—I have no idea. "If y'stir any harder, you're gonna break the spoon... and if ya stare any harder," his gaze flits toward John, then right back to me, "you're gonna break _me_. Please stop."

I blush and swallow, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry, lil bro. Got a lot on my mind; easily distracted."

He snorts, shaking his head. "Can't believe I'm about to say this, but it sounds like you two need to hit the sack... _far_ far away from me."

I tip my head in assent. "If only that would solve the entire problem."

"...who do I need to shoot?"

That startles a laugh out of me. I grin fondly over at him. "Fate? But I think she's got more than just your bullet waiting for her."

He grumbles something that sounds like begrudging agreement.

I spare a glance at Charon, but he's absorbed in running the cleaning cloth through the barrel of his gun, so I check on John instead, catching him swaggering back to the group. He smirks and leans down as he reaches my side, kissing my cheek and lightly taking the spoon from me to resume my stirring duties for himself. "What'd Fate do this time?"

Mac blinks and stares at John. "You heard that? Sh-crap, I knew ghouls had good hearing but that's just _ridiculous_."

John shrugs, an impish grin pulling up the corners of his mouth. "Like that, huh? Can't say I was originally expectin' that side effect either, but it sure is handy." He points at one ear with his unoccupied hand. "I just about get radio waves with these suckers."

I snort and chuckle at him, shaking my head disbelievingly. "You're a nut."

He nods once, solemnly. "I have those. But if I am one, then so're you for bein' with me."

I shake my head and lean over, resting my cheek on his shoulder. "Nope. I might be a nut, but it's not because I love you. I'm just generally nutty."

John cranes his neck to get a look at my face, waiting until I look up at him to _lick_ my forehead. Waylaying my cry of objection, he asserts, "Nah, ya just taste like you, sunshine. No nuts there, sorry."

A giggle-snort later, I'm hanging onto his shoulder to stay upright as I laugh at his absurdity.

Mac tosses plastic mugs at both of us, glaring disapprovingly even as I finally settle down.

I catch Deacon slinking back into camp in my periphery, likely coming back from a dead drop location. We mutually nod our morning greetings and he takes a spot on the other side of the fire, stretching his arms out with his palms facing the flames. He's uncharacteristically quiet this morning. Maybe he got some bad news. Whether he did or not, he doesn't seem eager to share.

I'm still trying to figure him out.

He lies constantly, that much is certain. He also tells the truth just as frequently. It's a brilliant tactic, really—especially if you're trying to keep someone on their toes. Why he's doing it to me, I'm not certain. Is he testing me? Is it a Railroad thing, or just a Deacon thing?

I've noticed he's got this weird little thing he does with his hands... it's almost like a nervous twitch, but after consulting with Charon about it and observing Deacon carefully, I've come to the conclusion that it's something like a highly simplified sign language, only far more subtle. I'm not entirely sure he's conscious of the small motions of his fingers, but I'm beginning to get a read on what each signal means... and I admit, I'm intrigued. Is he doing it on purpose? I can't imagine he would, considering how tight a lid he tries to keep on any tells. But if it's accidental, wouldn't it be more randomized than it is?

I plan to adopt the gestures myself once I'm confident enough in my understanding of them, to see how he reacts. Will he take it in stride, or wonder what the hell I'm doing? Perhaps it could even be a way to communicate between us in a situation that requires tricky negotiations? I have no idea, but it's certainly piqued my curiosity.

John hands the spoon's handle back to me, then retrieves and lights a Gray Tortoise. In a somewhat diverting chain reaction, all of my party members light their own, one after the other. John snorts and hands me his, sparking another of his own when I accept his offer with an amused smile.

Mac dishes the scrambled mirelurk eggs he's been tending onto the plates one by one, snagging the spoon from me and slopping insta-mash next to the eggs on each plate before he hands them out. It's not the most nutritious meal in the world, but it's filling, and out here, that's what counts. He splits the Meatballs in Marinara MRE between a bowl for Dogmeat and Charon's eggs instead of insta-mash—per Charon's preference of avoiding insta-mash whenever possible—handing Charon his plate before digging into his own.

Breakfast is a fairly quiet affair, everyone being either too groggy or too distracted by their own musings to hold much of a conversation. By the time we've all finished, it seems we're woken up enough to properly start the day. We pack our camp up and get ourselves ready for the road.

I'm gearing up, strapping on holsters, a few light leather armor pieces I've taken to wearing—mostly for close-quarters combat, there's no way in hell it's gonna stop a bullet, and no way in hell I'm wearing the heavy armor that _could_ stop a bullet—when Charon—already fully ready to go—steps over to me.

"I wish to speak privately with you, when possible. Perhaps after we reach Goodneighbor," he suggests, before somewhat reluctantly tacking on, "It is partially regarding my contract."

I lift an eyebrow at him but nod. "Alright, we'll talk at the apartment, then. Should be private enough."

He grants me a tight nod in reply, then checks his weapons over and takes his place on my right side in silence.

By the time I've finished fiddling with my own gear and weapons, everyone else is ready.

Time to hit the road.


	6. Chapter 6

"Ahh, the smell of jet, piss, and old puke. Welcome to Goodneighbor!"

John smacks Mac upside the head for his declaration, though I note he doesn't bother disagreeing with him. I snicker and offer a lax salute to Mozzy, who's met us at the gate.

"General." He nods respectfully, attention sliding to John immediately after as we all funnel inside. "I see you brought our Mayor back in one piece again." He glances at Deacon as he trails in behind us. "Plus one?" He looks back to me. "He with your pack?"

I open my mouth, glimpsing Deacon myself for a rueful second before looking back to Mozzy, shaking my head. "Afraid not, Mozzy. But he is an ally."

Mozzy nods his understanding, pivoting to lead the way to the Old State House, when the gate watch sounds an alert. We all turn to see what the commotion is about; Mozzy, John and I head back to find out the issue and man the wall if need be. Charon follows me, while Mac and Deacon hang back. When I peek back toward them, Deacon's disappeared. Nothing unusual.

By the time we've reached the wall, it's already apparent that this isn't the usual alert. Guns are being aimed, but not fired; tensions are high and ready to snap, but still tethered and tied. We hurry to mount the ramparts and see what the fuss is about.

The sight that meets us when we reach the top is... confounding, really.

A lone super mutant is standing about twenty feet from the gate, hands lifted in surrender.

 _Now, I've seen a lot of sneaky tactics from super mutants, but this one? This one's new. What's he got to gain from coming here, alone? Or is he alone?_ A cursory scan of the area reveals no other tall green men, so if he's not alone, they're all using stealth boys. _A possibility, but unlikely, unless it's a new tactic I've never heard of. What's this mutant's deal?_

The ramp shudders gently with Charon's footfalls as he mounts the last step, coming to take his place at my side, his gaze cast outward and scanning already. The sharp intake of breath once he catches sight of the mutant is... curious. He's not one to react so strongly to an enemy. He speaks up, "I know this mutant. He is an ally."

I frown, gracing him with my most incredulous look. "A super mutant... an _ally?_ I don't mean to say I doubt you, but even Strong's loyalty is dependent on line from a Shakespeare play, for crying out loud."

He fidgets for a moment, clearly uncomfortable, but nods. "He is not like Strong." He sighs, suddenly seeming reluctant, his movements sluggish as he digs into one of his armor's pouches, retrieving a slip of paper and handing it to me. "Here."

I carefully open what turns out to be a tattered, well-read letter... from his previous employer. I read through the faded writing to the end, pointing to the last sentence and showing him, curiosity in my features. "This?" When he confirms, I read the section over again and shake my head in disbelief, then gently fold the paper back up and hand it to him, while I consider the information I've gleaned. "Are you sure about this?"

He nods and repeats himself shortly. "Yes. Allow me to prove it?"

I arch a brow, then allow it with a tip of my head. "Your choice, but be my guest."

Without further ado, he disembarks the ramparts and heads out the gate. I watch with mounting concern as he approaches the mutant with quiet confidence and gun holstered on his back, hoping for his sake that he's not mistaken.

Most of the people on the wall lower their guns just enough to avoid hitting Charon with an accidental discharge. One kid persists in his slightly unsteady aim, obviously a touch green behind the ears. I nudge John and nod toward the jittery young man. He stakes his attention onto the person I indicate, then heads that way with a quiet sigh a moment later. I hear his throat clear gently as he reaches the green Watchman. Some hushed words are exchanged, before the kid sheepishly lowers his gun, falling in line with his compatriots. John pats him on the shoulder with a smile, giving an encouraging squeeze before heading back to me to watch Charon meet the mutant.

He's just come within a few feet of the green mutant by the time John returns to my side. I'm too far to hear what Charon says, but I have no issue hearing the mutant, who seems to have not just volume, but also pitch control issues with his voice.

"Charon, my friend!" _Odd. He pronounces it with a 'sh' sound, like my name. Come to think of it, so does Butch_. I frown, considering for once that I may have been the first one to use the 'kh' pronunciation of his name. I shake my head to clear it, snapping my attention back to the current situation as the green giant continues, "It is good to see you! You look well!"

There's a pause as Charon relays something to the malachite giant, during which I realize something, now that I'm paying proper attention: Charon is signing. I tilt my head, smiling proudly at my student and watching his hands as best I can from my position. _'...contract holder. She has been far kinder than I deserve. I believe you might do well, here.'_

The super mutant seems to be keenly watching this development as well, though whether he benefits from Charon's signing or not is unclear.

Regardless, he certainly takes Charon's words to heart. "Truly? How wonderful! I am pleased to hear you have found a place to belong. However, are you certain this," he carefully points to Goodneighbor, being sure to keep his hands up in the process, "place will be accepting of one such as I? Lynn seemed to think so, but she always had such..." he deflates slightly, weighed down by apparent sadness, his tone—previously jovial and upbeat, now somber and tired—reflecting it, "such high hopes, for everything."

Charon nods, hands lifting to sign, _'This is a F.E.V. refuge, as Underworld was, but it is better protected. One of my Mistress's companions is also as you are, only...'_

The mutant picks up the slack, when Charon can't seem to find the word to continue. "Less intellectually gifted?"

Charon merely shrugs, his stance radiating tacit agreement. He starts to sign again after a moment. _'Regardless, they accept him, now. I would imagine, after a time, they will accept you, as well.'_

The taller of the two nods reasonably. "That is quite encouraging to hear! Perhaps you would introduce me to your friends?"

Charon looks back up at me, then over at John.

John looks to me, an uncertain grimace tugging at his features. He subtly tilts his head toward the mutant, peering back at me as if asking for my opinion.

I take a breath, slowly sighing it out and nodding after a few seconds. "Charon trusts him and I trust Charon. I'll trust the mutant, until he proves himself untrustworthy." I shrug. "Your choice whether Goodneighbor trusts him or not."

He purses his lips thoughtfully, turning to the scene just outside his gate and eying the mutant appraisingly. After a tense twenty seconds or so, he nods. "Alright." He lifts his voice so those around us can easily hear his order, "Let 'im in, but watch 'im." He makes eye contact with our new green—potential—ally. "No funny business."

The viridian behemoth nods, his expression serious.

Charon leads him in through the gate—which the giant has to duck down to get through—and stands with his charge at the foot of the stairs, peering up at me. "General Shana Stewart, this is my friend, Fawkes." He indicates the mutant. "He was an ally and friend to Lynn DeLoria for many years; he is cut from good cloth."

I had thought Fawkes to be a nickname when I read it in the letter, but apparently it's legitimate. I narrow my eyes slightly, then come halfway down the stairs, where I stand on eye level with the... with _Fawkes_. A few seconds of looking him over later, I relax and offer him a smile, then my hand. "It's good to meet you, Fawkes."

He looks down at my hand, then ever, _ever_ so gingerly, takes it in both of his and slowly, carefully shakes it. He gently holds it in his warm grasp for a few seconds after before releasing me. His broad smile stretches his lips almost grotesquely, but it still manages to be endearing. "It is wonderful to meet you, General. Charon speaks very highly of you, and his good opinion is quite the rarity, so you must be quite special, indeed!"

I note Charon shifting uncomfortably in my periphery and I smirk. "Well, the feeling's mutual, Fawkes. Charon's been a lifesaver in more ways than one, since he came into our lives. Anyway, I look forward to hearing more about you. Oh, and... call me Shana. Any real friend of Charon's is a friend of mine."

After the commotion at the gate finally calmed down to something close to reasonable, Fawkes had gone off to the Old State House with John, Charon following right on my tail with Mac.

It's time we all had a good meal.

* * *

"Cods!" I call from the middle of the last flight of stairs, the first familiar 'face' I see perking up at his nickname.

"My _goodness_ mum, but it's wonderful to see you!" he returns my excitement, seeming as though he's barely managing to stay at his station, for his eagerness to come over and say hello.

The early lunch crowd turns to gawk at my group as we head through, most sending a nod my way, some a friendly wave; yet others are less enthused. Can't please them all.

By the time I reach the bar, Codsworth is beside himself. "Oh mum, it's been _months!"_ he chides, "I've been utterly beside myself. Are you alright? Is everyone alive and well? Have you found young Shaun? Who is that man behind you?"

I swivel to see the guy he's indicating, which turns out to be Deacon. The tension I'd allowed into my shoulders at Codsworth's query releases, somewhat, as I look back to the old 'bot. "that's Deacon, Cods. Codsworth, Deacon; Deacon, Codsworth," I introduce the two, "Cods was my Mr. Handy before the war; he's the chef for The Third Rail, now. Speaking of which..." I sling my heavy backpack off and set it on the bar, Chuck complaining bitterly about it all the while. I wave him off and dig through mines, grenades, magazines, clothing and tools of various sorts, in search of my prizes.

"Ah-ha! Here we are." I pull out all the spices I've gathered and traded for along the way, a bunch of carrots, six mutfruit—one of which got squished, sadly. I'll have to clean up that mess later. Fun fun—one small melon and a big bag of brahmin jerky, setting it all out on the counter—minus the squished mutfruit, which I eat half of and hand the other half to Mac instead—and pushing it over to Codsworth.

As Cod's in raptures over the fresh supplies, I peek back at Deacon, waggling my eyebrows eagerly and bouncing a bit in anticipation of the good meal I know we're going to get for this. It's a small shipment, but it's enough to put smiles on a few faces, which is more than enough to make Cods happy.

"Hey, Miss General," pipes up a voice that was once sweet, but the wasteland has roughened with use and smoke. "Ya got someone wantin' to see ya."

I peer over at Nova, arching a brow and barely containing the smirk tugging one corner of my mouth up rather insistently. "Is that so? And who could that _possibly_ be? Who in the big, wide wasteland would come over to see little old me, hm?"

She's huffing little breaths made of laughter as she tries to keep a straight face. "Dunno, some guy that won't leave me alone about when you're comin' back home... amongst other things." She winks, her smile finally freed to spread across her face as she subtly nods toward the topic of our conversation.

I spin and pin my eyes on one of my favorite people, automatically opening my arms as a broad smile splits my face in twain. "Gob!"

He shifts on his feet, more color rising to his cheeks the longer he stands there, until he finally gives in and smiles, treading softly over to me and accepting my embrace with his own, whole-heartedly. "We missed you somethin' fierce, Miss Shana. S'good to see ya home—real good."

I grin and give a pleased hum, squeezing him a bit tighter for a few seconds. "It's good to _be_ home, sweetheart. I'm happy to see you." We finally release each other after a while, but I hold onto him as I get a good look at him. He looks healthy, not a scratch or a bruise on him. Looks like he's even gained some healthy weight, and about time, too. He was skinny as a post when he got here. "You're looking great, hun. How's the place treatin' ya?"

He flushes darkly at my observational compliment, though he still manages a bashful smile. "It's doin' great, Miss Shana. I'm.. I'm happy here. People are good, food's good, music's good... it's just... _good_." He grins at me and nods once, solidly.

I take his ragged cheeks in my hands and kiss his right one, adding one short hug of his neck before I release him. "I'm so glad to hear it, sweetheart. You deserve the world, never forget that."

He just grins and nods eagerly at me again, face quite aflame with his fluster. "I w-won't, Miss Shana."

* * *

After eating lunch and saying my goodbyes to Mac as he departs for his jobs—which, unsurprisingly, were backed up all to hell; my little brother's quite in-demand, especially now that he's known as the General's personal sniper—it's time to poke around and root Nick out of wherever he's holed himself up in.

This proves to be an effort in futility.

Nick is long gone.

According to O'Conolly, one of the Watchmen at the gate, Nick left nearly two weeks ago, with Diamond City as his destination. If that's the case, at least he's most likely safe. It's still worrisome, considering none of us have any idea if Kellogg could take over him at any point. Nick would never forgive himself if that bastard took over and hurt Ellie, or anyone in town.

For now, I can't just go straight back out, unless I go by myself. I'm not going to be the one to keep my boys from getting some shore leave, as it were. So, I have to trust that Nick has control of it; that he knows what he's doing.

God, I hope he does.

* * *

I lean against the elevator wall in lax repose as Charon turns the key and sends us upward, reminding me sharply of the day he'd forced my hand on the sleeping issue; the day it all began to change. Hell, we scarcely smell any better now than we did then. I look over at him with an arched brow, hoping to change at least one variable, to break up the deja vu. "Want the shower first?"

He shakes his head, expression troubled. He's been quiet ever since he he introduced Fawkes to us, responding non-verbally to every question thrown his way, using simple gestures and even occasionally signing. While I'm glad to see him practicing, it's starting to worry me that he won't speak.

The elevator dings as its rumbling ascent ends, the doors clattering open to spill us out into my small home. I sigh and head toward the shower first, but before I can open the curved glass door to let myself in, a rough, warm hand wraps its fingers around my bare upper arm with a firm grip, halting my progress. I turn my head, blinking in surprise at the hand's owner, whose expression has only become more troubled; a hint of desperation now toying at the edges. He shakes his head, then nods to the desk chair, tugging me gently but resolutely toward it.

I comply, more confused than ever now, but trusting Charon with... well... _everything,_ if I'm honest. He's never once given me a reason to doubt that my trust was misplaced, after all.

He stands before me as I sit, the backs of his knees nearly meeting the edge of the bed and marking himself as being as far away form me as he can be, without flat going onto the balcony. He stands there and he scowls at the floor, which must've done him some grievous harm at some point, to be glared at _that_ harshly.

Finally, he looks up to me, and the words he lifts his hands to sign break my world apart.

 _'Mistress... Shana. I wish for you to sell my contract.'_


	7. Chapter 7

The silence that follows eats away at me like a cancer in my very bones. His gaze never wavers, eyes steady on me as he waits with a calm I can't hope to duplicate... internally, at least. Externally, I'm frozen in shock, staring right back at him; as I feel I have been, ever since I met him.

Finally, at long last, my mind catches up to what he's asked me to do.

My lips loosen and let me speak one word. I pour all of my horror, my incredulity, my outrage into this one word, ending with an edge of soul-wrenching sorrow I couldn't hope to fabricate.

" _...What?!"_

He arches a brow at me, belatedly lifting his hands to repeat himself, but I hold my own hand up to halt him. "No. _No._ Why? Why... _explain_... why do you want this? _What did I do wrong?"_

He's shaking his head before I even finish, already signing by the time I do. _'Nothing; you did nothing wrong. I do not wish you to sell my contract to be rid of me.'_

I blink at him vapidly, my confusion beyond apparent. Slowly, I try to make sense of things. "How would selling your contract _not_ get rid of you, Charon? That makes absolutely no sense."

He sighs heavily, his motions slightly clumsy as he explains, fumbling on a word here and there. _'I wish you to sell my contract to Mayor Hancock,'_ he reasons, spelling John's surname out, _'because it will remove any possible doubts which might prevent me from...'_ he swallows, normally confident gaze falling to the side, _'pursuing specific paths, which I believe I am now ready to choose.'_

I watch him carefully, turning my observational skills onto him keenly. The pale blush making its way across his battered cheeks under my stare gives him away. He's... _embarrassed,_ though the why of it all is not yet apparent. I take a breath, bracing myself. "What paths?"

His gaze shifts to my knees, then my feet, then away again. He lifts his hands, then lowers them, faltering. He opens his mouth as if to speak, relief fluttering in my heart before he crushes it with a hitch in his breath that he swallows, releasing that breath softly, the sound stuttering shakily. He closes his eyes, seeming to center himself, then again raises his hands, his signing halting, painfully slow. _'It... is less a path... more a... person.'_

All at once, it hits me.

All the awkwardness over the past few months, the extra looks, the long stares, the odd sort of eagerness he's had lately—well above and beyond the usual enthusiasm he has to fulfill the demands of his contract—the suspicions I've held of the secret he's been keeping from me... it all comes crashing down on top of me, with the inescapable truth.

...I can't do this.

I _can't._

...Can I?

If I'm right—which, what the hell else _could_ it be? All signs point to it—that damned contract of his is indeed a noose that could hang his chance to follow this avenue to its conclusion, whatever that may be. I chew my lip in consideration, scowling at the floor as I mull this over.

Evidently, I'm pondering for a bit longer than I'd meant to, as Charon finally clears his throat and speaks, "Shana, please say something."

My gaze steals up to his, the scowl on my face turning into a tiny, hesitant smile. "It's good to hear you talk again."

It's not the answer he expects; that much is evident in his surprised expression, in the flushing and his subtle shifting from foot to foot. He huffs and links his hands at the base of his spine, straightening to his full height, squaring himself as he looks down at me.

I know that look all too well: he wants an answer.

I'm not completely sure how to give him one, but the fact remains that he deserves his pound of flesh.

I fold my hands before me and take in a deep breath of air that tastes like a rad storm stirring outside. My attention flits to the window behind him for just long enough to confirm it; the green clouds roiling through the sky on the horizon spell out the need for me to take my rad-x, and soon.

Again I bite my lip, looking up to him, meeting his stare. At last, I break. "What do you want me to say, Charon? I've seen you, I've been watching, I know what this is about. What I don't see is how selling your contract to John is going to make any of this..." I gesture helplessly, looking away with a sigh shuddering from me as my throat tightens. I let my head fall to rest my brow in my waiting palm.

It takes a few long seconds for him to formulate a response. "...You would keep my contract, despite knowing... my intentions?"

I scoff, shaking my head into my hand, only bothering to lift my skull from its morose position to peer up at him incredulously. "What else would you have me do? What good would selling it to John even do? If you're worried about what other people think, couldn't they assume he would order you just as easily as I could to..." I can't even finish the sentence, already sick to my stomach at the thought of such an order. I cover my mouth with my hand and shake my head again, shutting my eyes tightly against a wave of nausea.

His voice slices through the twisting in my gut. "I am only worried how _you_ view the situation. It is not the concern of anyone else. I would not have my pursuit of you tainted by a thought of influence from the contract, in any way. It would be untenable."

I slide my hand from my mouth and tighten it to a fist instead, resting my cheek on it with a sighed breath. I look up at him, as he fully admits his reasons; laid out on the field like tin soldiers lined up for battle. "As I said, selling it to John wouldn't change that, Charon. Selling it to anyone I know well enough to trust them with it wouldn't change that, and I'm _not_ selling it to some random stranger, so where does that leave us?"

He stiffens, eyes pinned to the wall behind me. "You wish me to cease my pursuit?"

I wait until he lowers his gaze back down to me before I slowly shake my head. "No," I almost whisper, but I know he hears me, "no, I don't." I stand, carefully making my way over to him, keeping my eyes steady on him all the way. "I asked you what you wanted, months ago. If this is your answer... if you're absolutely _sure,_ Charon... then I want you to do what I told you to."

"I want you to do what you want."


End file.
